Isn’t it hilarious
how every single poem I write
that’s supposed to be
an inspiring statement about
how I don’t need you anymore
inherently denies
itself?

I am going to choke on the irony.

I’m writing
Because I didn’t write yesterday
And I went to sleep
At 5 in the morning
When the sun was waking
And the world was breaking
In front of my
Eyes

twilight dances on my desk
sun rays doing pirouettes
urging me to get up
to do something
anything that’s no less
than an achievement
in and of itself
and yet I ignore
their plea and despite
the proximity
between me and
the inevitable arrival
of Cronus himself
I continue to sit
not mindlessly but
rather aimlessly
watching the sun rays
turn into romanesque
shapes and figures
at the touch of my fingers
and I wonder
about what will happen
if my actions won’t come
with a beaming certificate
for me to put up proudly
on my old and dusty
desk to proclaim
that I, myself,
have meaning

Inside my little world I try to focus
long enough to look into your eyes
and keep the dearest particles of light,
captured in May,
released in June,
restored in July,
severed in August,
inside.

I cannot remember
the last time I felt
this melancholy.

/

Careless laughter
and needless fantasies
we indulged in,
of spending even more
time than we did,
more than we should,
more than we had,
more more more…
It was never enough.

We’d drown ourselves
in the romanticised idea
of youth
and a lifestyle
better suited for
invisible wanderers
than for kids from the suburbs.

We’d stay out too late
mimicking the artists
who failed to get their pain across,
imagining we understood them.
We’d be up all night
guessing each other’s thoughts
and retelling our life
down from childhood up until then.

Contemplations of jealousy
and assumptions
rooted in instability.
Long walks
through cracked pavement
and jokes to hide
our invalidated pain.

Songs sung out.
Songs screamed out.
Songs of hope.
Songs of loss.
We’d hide ourselves
in music and the arms
of whoever was
conveniently located.

/

And I wouldn’t take any of it back.

There’s glass shards around my bed
And if I step out I’ll bleed again
I know this for a fact that
With my emotions still intact
I cannot make it through
So unless you’re planning to ignite
My soul and burn it in a cold blue light
I suggest that instead
You climb into my bed
And in the night when we sleep
Whatever dreams may come
I shall welcome them all

While walking I see two of my shadows
And I feel their presence.

I know I ought to know the scientific explanation of such phenomena
But there is freedom in not knowing things
And bliss in ignorance.

I didn’t go to dance practice today because of things too important to ignore (but not important enough to care about).

So I danced on my way home
Because of overwhelming thoughts
And old habits that I cling to.

And people stared.

And I like that my “Too Tired To Care” attitude
Comes of as just not caring.

And falling leaves look like dead birds and vice-versa.

And I touch the skin behind my ear
And even though it doesn’t hurt anymore
I cry.

Darling, won’t you please
just pick and be done with me?
But no, you stay and bide your time.
Won’t let me rest until I’ve died.
Three ghosts now haunt your mind.

I guess you like it that way.
I just wish I had a bigger say in this matter.
I wish my presence would be bigger.
Big enough so that I could block out
all the background noise all by myself.
Big enough so that I would stand my ground
and not back out trying to preserve
something that was rotting from the inside.

“Never back down without a fight.”
Well, I fought for you, love,
but I’m not grand enough to survive
a cold war that has no ending.
Not until the end of time.

Time is something we have little off.
You taught me that.

It was the butterfly effect.

You say you’re the GOAT,
and perceive yourself as oh so clever.
Like you’re the first one to come up with such an impeccable and hilarious acronym.

Impeccable: adj. in accordance with the highest standards;
Just like you, right?
“It’s a double entendre, get it?”
No, sorry, my femininity hinders my abilities of basic thought.
Tell me more…

…******.

You look like the kind of guy
that’s into S&M and taking MD.
Fittingly, you can **** My Metaphorical ****.

Oh how I wish I could walk
with the aura of my namesake.

That I would never have doubts.
That my self-confidence would never waver.
That I would have any confidence whatsoever.
That I would have a sassy remark about everything.
That I would always have a comeback prepared.
That I would never be afraid to use it.
That I would always have a funny story to tell.
That I could always be there for everyone.
That everyone would care.
That I would never feel “dead inside”.

But, alas,
I am a person.
I am not a wish-fullfilment fantasy.
I will never grow into her,
because despite my feel-good delusions,
I am not her.
And she will never be me.

Please take my heart
And trap it inside of your ribcage
It seeks artificial closeness
Even if it has to make a mess
Of me in the process

I find comfort in your rage.
I feel chosen, to witness
You dying on stage is
Such a grand sight to behold.

When we count the stars
As we count our problems
Involunterally, I swear,
I find that one constellation
That kinda looks like us.

I do not point it out.
That would be selfish.
And the comfort would be
Replaced by anxiety
Replaced by a broken
Vow of sobriety.

And no longer would
My shoulders be wet
From tears shed on a
Beautiful night under
The stars, that I could
No longer name.

So I stay silent and hope
That next time the rage
Won’t be ignited by
You being upset that
No one is there for you.

I was senseless.
But what can I do?
My head was spinning,
Looking to cling to a heart
That was never there.
I stumbled and tripped,
Landed face first
On rejection without
A chance for redemption.
At least when you left
You couldn’t see me
Crestfallen, bared,
Stripped of all my pride.
Laying on my back,
Blasting my thoughts away
With my one true love
Travelling through my ears
Into my poor excuse for a brain,
Shutting it down
For at least a few.
When I woke,
All I could think about
Was how to salvage
What was left to save.
I know I need to lie,
But deep in my heart
You will find a place
Concealed by a door
With a lock of sobriety
Placed upon it.
It knows, that despite
My pathetically dulled senses
I meant every word
And I would ***** them out again
If it would only,
Cheer you up
Instead of
Letting
You
Go.

In light of recent self-awarness
I try my best to feel
less suffocated
by the instilled ideal
of forgiveness
and more accepting
of the primal, instinctive
need to express
what I cannot suppress

In light of recent self-awareness
I try my best to see
less of the drowning
nerve-racking
ticking
notion that is
The Moment
and more of the ambiently
serene concept of
The Present

In light of recent self-awareness
I try my best to be
less aware
and more myself.

When its emerald eye glimmers in the shadow of the dusty shelf above
I pause,
I sense a presense.

It is not unlike me to attribute human characteristics to inanimate objects.
Give them names and nicknames and quirky character traits based on how their forms bend.

In the flickering lights of a broke wicken sanctuary though, I do not do it out of habit.

I feel it and stare it back down and see my own reflection in the cracked gems that once were a soul.

A gaudy skull.

The kind you see in home video Indiana Jones tributes,
with hats stolen from someone’s parents,
and jackets stolen from someone else’s elder siblings,
and ketchup for blood.

The kind your quirky local manic pixie dream girl uses to hold incense.

The kind I’m about to waste my money on because I’m an adult now and I can use my millennial minimum wage however I want.

I do not become aware of the possessed nature of my new buddy until I take it back home and hear it snicker in the middle of the night.

I know it is the skull, for my roommate is not one to snicker.

(He chuckles when he’s hiding an opinion and has a villainous laugh when it’s coming from a place of sincerity, but that’s beside the point)

I know it’s laughing at me.
I know this for a fact.

It takes me three more nights to call it out on it because I’ve never been confronted with the issue of standing up to a haunted antique I took home from a secondhand shop, possibly owned by satan’s offspring.
But I’m twenty-one years old and still experiencing some firsts, I suppose.

The gaudy skull is exceptionally snarky.
In a way none of my named plants ever were.
Not even Gerard.

He comes for me for the garbage on the floor and the dust on the windowsill on which he’s propped up, and then later for my poor taste in chore-doing music.

I never ask for its name because I know for a fact he’ll make a game out of it
and I am not in the mood for entertaining ghosts.

I come to realise it all on my own a couple of weeks later.
Once the snark starts to wear off,
and domesticity settles in,
and shared quiet becomes comforting,
despite the circumstances.

It is Judas.

I know this for a fact.

You do not understand the extent to which I am certain that it is Judas.
I have never been so aware of someone’s origins in my entire life.
I bought this creepy item and it is now in my room and I’m developing a weird attachment to it and maybe occasionally use it as a paper-weight and it is Judas.

I feel it in my heart and know it inside of my skull that might be standing on someone else’s touchscreen windowsill
two thousand years in the future,
jade stones for eyes even though I specifically requested amber,
but you get ****** over by bureaucracy even after death.

How do I know it is Judas?

Because I feel him stare at me like he wants to kiss me late at night and sense him plotting my betrayal early morning.

I know it is that, for a fact, because I’ve felt this exact sensation before.

My **** edgy room decor is Judas.

I try to get him to admit it himself by talking of past lovers and reading aloud the surprising number of Jesus metaphor poems I have in my room.
I hate Jesus metaphors, but I do it for that sweet sensation of seeing someone trying to dodge the inevitable once it’s coming at them like a mule through Rome piloted by the son of god.

I know he’ll cave eventually and tell me
and I know it’ll be the same caliber of glorious news as Jesus coming out of his own cave of burial,
resurrected and preaching winning.
I know I’ll win.

And I think to myself that maybe I am in the mood to entertain and just haven’t found the right outlet yet.
Maybe history’s most infamous apostle is It.
The original sinner and the original rebel.

(I’m aware it’s technically Cain, the jealousy-ridden son of Adam and Eve, but I only ever count the gays)

Judas and I have bonded.

And I can tell he’s on the verge of telling me his dark and twisted backstory. Again, I have felt this sensation before.

And when it happens, we can talk
about what it’s like being demonised by the one you love
and being the odd one out in your devotee friend group, even though you eat bread and drink wine and worship metaphor just like them.
And how patriarchal institutions distort history to pedal the same tired spiel of everything having a place and everything being there for a reason.

But we both know that isn’t true
because neither of us feel like part of god’s plan or created in anyone’s image.

And we can listen to sad music about wanting to kiss the wrong people together.

And that’s all I ever wanted from a friendship.

I want to run away.
I want to stop thinking.
I want affection,
however ephemeral
and sickeningly circumstantial
from people
who seek the same.
If only for tonight,
they’re my kindred souls,
so I’ll take one,
pretend it’s you,
give up myself to your reflection
and in the morning
curse at my conception,
come to.

I run
And I scatter
No use trying to find yourself through mindless chatter
And while I’d like to think
That my friends and I matter
It’s all just nonsense
Because in reality
We’re all just concepts
Running about
Talking aloud
Just a mindless crowd
That lives its life without any consolation
Or any form of self-expression
For our aggression
Or the things we cannot suppress

You don’t need me
And yet I’m always there

I’m your washed out sweater
I’m your ripped skinny jeans
I’m your tea when there’s no coffee
I’m your back up lighter
I’m your secret cigarette stash

Forgotten until needed
I’ve found my place

Goodmorning,
precious nutcase.
Which side will I face today?
The neurotic one, to my dismay.
I can never tell which one you truly are.
I know, it seems bizarre
that after all this time
still I’m
so painfully unaware.
And I can’t force you to care.

How I hate you, Kerouac,
you made me believe I can live
with the crazy ones.
Oh how wrong was I.
After all this time
I still can’t tell which one’s the lie.
The one that l have to beg
and twist my arm out
to get attention
or the one that sends me
'I miss you's
etched in the sand.

I could hear a pin drop.

No, a ball of cotton lightly float and touch down.
Upon a silk sheet.

A speck of dust land on another speck of dust thousands of light years away,
where the colours are inverted negative,
and creatures communicate in a way that doesn’t require poorly worded drunken blurbs
converted into electrons
travelling from one annoyingly loud metal chip to another.

I can hear the electrons converting
and I can hear them laughing at me.

I am a speck of dust upon a speck of dust.
Ungracefully, heavily falling onto my creased sheets.

Alone.

From my bone marrow I made
a little shell to keep you safe
from all the arrows
shot at your collarbones.
And all I ever wanted was for you to take
this small object of my affection
on which I carved my heart out
and say you’d do the same.

But instead you threw it away
in the grey sand at the break of day
where it wouldn’t even shatter
into pieces small enough
for me not to notice them
amongst all the other
little stones
scattered at my feet.

And now I have to wait
for the wind to bury it.

Along with all my hopes
for a little shell.

In which I can fit
my little soul.

How long
Is it okay
To be in pain.
How long
Do I get
To be hurt.
When do
I reach
The point
Of no return,
When all
My reasons
Break
And all of my
Self-imposed rules
Go to waste.
I hope
Not much longer.

I went out
Scarf-less
Breathless
Into the night
Into my light

Into the narrow
Sober streets
Exclusive to me
In my moment
Of plight

Crooked alleys
Slanted shadows
They preach to me
My mentality
Creeping
Up my silhouette
Strangling my bare neck and
Holding back tears
Held back all these years

I feel light

So don’t worry
I’ll be back soon,
Whoever you are.

I wish I could break
I wish I could let myself
Fall to pieces
And shatter

But pride
Is a stubborn thing
And it drags me along
Holding the shards together
Convincing each one
That it matters

And that dulling the edges
Against each other
Is worth it
Until I’ve finally become
Numb
To mindless chatter

-
*Sometimes I feel like the Mad Hatter.

I can tell
That you’re nervous
By the way
That your eyes
Dart away
Like you just remembered
What happened
Yesterday
And by the way
Your leg is having
It’s own little seizure
And by the way
You can’t even hold
Your **** cigarette
Still

Just trust me
It’ll be okay
And we will still
Be here tomorrow
And you still
Won’t be able
To smoke
Like a proper
Cynical *******